One and the Same
by lazarov
Summary: Eliot and Quentin struggle their way through memories of their life together.
1. Chapter 1

The memories started to come back to him in sudden, unexpected rushes. They were often blurry and fragmented, and they were rarely the ones he wished he could remember, but Eliot tried his best to dredge the good bits back up to the surface:

 _The tiny straw-padded bed in the corner of their one-room home. Slowly waking up to the too-sharp Fillory sunrise with Quentin's legs tangled up in his own. Evenings spent cooking dinner over a fire and sipping fruit wine. Quentin mumbling quietly to himself, his fingers dancing in the moonlit air as he traced the mosaic in his mind's eye and planned his next design._

 _Quentin's fingers, as they slipped across the curve of Eliot's jaw to wrap behind Eliot's neck and pull him closer._

It was usually when he was in the midst of doing something else, shining his shoes or sawing at his dinner with a steak knife, that he would hit on something beautiful and important that he'd completely forgotten. Or, rather, it would hit him – straight in the chest, knocking the wind right out of him so that he needed to grab at something to steady himself and keep from crying out.

It was happening more and more often, now, with an intensity that was starting to scare the absolute fuck out of him. He wasn't sure if it was happening to Quentin, too, or if all this time-travel bullshit had just popped a blood vessel in his brain and the memories were make-believe, nothing more than symptoms of him slowly losing his faculties as his brain rotted. He was afraid to find out but, even more, he was afraid to lose the bits that he'd started to remember.


	2. Chapter 2

Six year old Rupert ran up to tug at Eliot's shirt and tell him all about the huge fluffy jackrabbit he'd chased all the way to the river and nearly-nearly-nearly caught for supper. His hands waved through the air as he described his pursuit, zigging and zagging between trees and soaring over boulders. "And then I had him cornered and I had my slingshot ready and everything," Rupert explained breathlessly, "but then he was gone! I looked everywhere on the riverbank but he was totally disappeared! Stupid rabbit."

Eliot's eyes caught Quentin's and they shared a smile – the secret kind that didn't quite reach their lips - before Eliot shaped his face into a frown and looked back down at Rupert, who was still clutching a little fistful of his tunic. "You know you're not allowed to go near the water," he said, his voice as stern as he could manage. He wasn't much good at 'stern.'

"I know, dad," Rupert mumbled. "But the rabbit was so big! And fluffy, and also he called me a bad name."

"Doesn't matter if the rabbit was a jerk, the river is off limits. And why is that?" Quentin added, still crouched over the mosaic. He absently tapped his fingers on the edges of the blue tile in his hands as he contemplated where to place it.

 _It was still so early in the quest. They hadn't yet admitted to themselves that there was no such thing as the 'right' place – that every place was just 'a' place, as good and as bad and as pointless as any._

"Because there are giant man-eating turtles in the river," Rupert recited flatly, flopping his arms at his sides and rolling his eyes. At Eliot and Quentin's confused looks, he snapped at the air with his teeth to illustrate the whole 'man-eating turtles' concept, because it sure looked like they weren't following. Eliot stifled a laugh.

"I mean – yeah, okay, that too I guess?" Quentin shot a quizzical glance at Eliot – are those an actual thing? Eliot shrugged back – beats me. Quentin put down his tile and dusted off his hands on his tunic. "The main reason is because the river is fast and deep and you could drown."

Rupert gave Quentin an exasperated look that conveyed the overt message of, Come on, dude, I'm six. I can take care of myself. "Fi-ine," he said.

"Why don't we give equal weighting to the hungry turtles and the drowning and call it a draw. Point is, rules are rules. No more going near the river without one of us," Eliot jabbed a thumb towards Quentin and then himself. "Capisce?"

"Uhmm." Rupert thought about it. Finally he said, "I don't know what that word means."

"It means: have we got a deal?"

"O-kay." Rupert sighed and held out his small, blackberry-stained hand so Eliot could shake it, then he kicked at the dirt and mumbled, "You and dad aren't tough enough to fight a giant turtle anyway."

"I'll have you know I've taken on a dragon, thank you very much!" Quentin bellowed, rising from his knees to scoop Rupert into his arms and toss him over his shoulder. Rupert squealed with laughter as Quentin spun him around in circles. "A dragon, and a monster made of entirely of moths, and…"

"No way!" Rupert shouted through his laughter.

"Yes way," Eliot insisted.

"Well, I hope that jackrabbit got eaten! Mashed up and squished right between a killer turtle's teeth so he can't call me names ever again." Still draped over Quentin's shoulder, Rupert did his turtle impression again. He poked Quentin in the back. "Turn me so I can look at dad." Dutifully, Quentin spun so that Rupert was level with Eliot's eyes. "What do you think? About him getting eaten?"

"Well." Eliot tapped his chin with one finger. "First of all, I don't think turtles have teeth. Second, I guess whether or not I wish a horrible death upon him depends on exactly what name that rabbit called you, buddy."

"He called me a…" Rupert frowned, reconsidering, and waved Eliot closer. Eliot dutifully leaned forward so that Rupert could whisper with one hand cupped around his ear: "A _two-legged idiot_."

"Well," Eliot said gravely, rocking back on his heels. Quentin's shoulders were bobbing with silent laughter and Rupert bounced gently with them. "That is particularly rude. And I'm glad you chose not to repeat it in front of your dad. We both know he's very sensitive" –

"Hey!" Quentin protested.

"But, if we're talking eaten-by-turtles bad? I think I could find it in my heart to let that rabbit go. Mercy is a virtue, no?"

Rupert nodded, pleased with the answer, and Eliot stepped towards them. He pressed his lips against the sun-warmed top of Rupert's head, before nosing at the soft, stubbled spot below Quentin's ear. Gently, Quentin leaned into his touch -

" _Jesus fuck_." Eliot slammed one angry fist on the table and then buried his face in his hands. The sharp pain in his wrist helped to draw him out of the memory, but he was still stuck half-in and half-out: he could still smell Quentin's hair and the damp of his skin after working on the mosaic in the afternoon heat. He could still feel a tiny hand tugging at his linen shirt. Eliot suppressed the urge to throw his chair backwards and rip himself away from it. "Jesus fucking Christ," he said again, wounded, his lips muffled against his palms.

" _Hey_ ," Quentin said quickly, shooting one hand out to gently grab Eliot's wrist. "El? You okay?"

He couldn't answer – paralyzed by the memory, he opened his eyes and slowly blinked before taking stock of himself: they were in a shitty diner in midtown. In front of him, there was a scuffed white plate with a bagel on it. There was lox on the bagel. Quentin was sitting across from him. Quentin was wearing a grey sweater. He could feel Quentin's foot touching his foot. Quentin's warm hand was on his wrist.

Heart still racing, Eliot continued to silently list the things he could see and hear and touch (table, knife, cash register, exit sign, window, taxi cab, Quentin) until he mostly returned to himself. Until the childlike laughter in his head faded away and all he could hear was the clanging of cutlery on dishware and the muddled conversations of strangers. Quentin's hand slid from his wrist and tentatively brushed his own before taking hold of it and giving it a squeeze.

"Where'd you go, El?"

Eliot looked at Quentin with burning eyes. An irrational thought flashed through his mind, one he couldn't quite make sense of but that had been occurring to him more and more lately. He thought: _God, look at him. He looks so young_. Eliot ignored the urge to touch the smooth skin at the corners of Quentin's eyes. He realized that Quentin was still frowning at him, waiting for an answer.

"I – uh." Eliot's mouth felt dry. The fishy smell of the food in front of him made his stomach swim, and he pushed his plate away, accidentally causing his fork to clatter to the floor. They ignored it. Eliot chewed on his bottom lip, trying to find the right words, but all he could manage to say was: " _Rupert._ "

A long silence stretched between them.

"Oh," Quentin said quietly - he nodded once and then, withdrawing his hand from Eliot's, turned away to look out the window.

Eliot leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He tried to coax the memory back again, pleading with it, feeling as though he were attempting to catch a skittish animal. But it was gone. The ache in his chest was so wretched he thought he might cry out.

Eliot felt strangely like he was mourning the death of someone he had never known.

It was a long time before he opened his eyes again. When he finally did, he saw that Quentin was still staring out the window. Pedestrians streamed by on the sidewalk outside, huddled under their umbrellas against the miserable rain. Quentin didn't seem to see them at all. His eyes were red-rimmed and unfocused, and after a while Eliot asked, "Q?"

"It's okay - I'm okay," Quentin said quickly, snapping out of it. He shook his head and wiped roughly at his nose with the back of his sleeve. Careful not to put his elbows in their forgotten food, Eliot leaned forward across the scuffed laminate table to retake Quentin's hand.

"You sure?"

Weakly, Quentin nodded. Clearing his throat, he said, "I just…" He shrunk away from Eliot's gaze and turned his head back towards the window. A faraway look crossed his face and his eyes were shiny in the dim, rainy afternoon glow. He squeezed Eliot's hand once more. "I just I really miss him too, El."

Eliot nodded.

'I know,' and 'me too' both felt criminally insufficient, so he said nothing. Eventually, the waitress came to clear their untouched plates and they paid the bill in silence before shakily rising from the table.

With Eliot's hand placed gently on Quentin's lower back, guiding him through the doorway, they joined the flow of pedestrians and ventured back out into the world, heads bowed against the pounding rain.

There would be time to talk about all of this later, but for now: they had a quest to finish.


End file.
